


A Saturday Night Tale

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Crack, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-01-01
Updated: 1998-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Ellison, disco child</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Saturday Night Tale

**Author's Note:**

> I read The Divine Adoratrice's "A Tale of a Tape" and it was all downhill from there.

"It was Saturday Night ..."

Normally, Blair counted on coming home to his tough-guy partner, but tonight was different. Tonight was the seventh anniversary of the third time they'd kissed, and both of them wanted the day to be special. Simon had known how important this was to both of them, and had given Jim the day off. Blair had had to go to a seminar on "You and Your Grant Money." He'd called home at every break, but Jim refused to tell anything about his plans.

And now Blair was home. With a sigh, he put the key in the door, unlocking it, anticipating -- he didn't know what -- as he walked through the door.

"Jungle Fever" was playing, and Blair cringed. Oh, God. Jim had returned to his disco roots.

Tonight was going to be hell.

"Hello, puddin'" Jim stood there in white shirt and tight black jeans, the moon light reflecting off the stud in his ear.

Blair just stared at him; Jim had gone delusional. "So, ah, what is this all about?"

Jim pressed a button on the universal remote and tossed the device on the couch. Thankfully, a new CD swapped in and instantly burst into song, filling the loft with the voice of Jim Croce. With gut-clenching horror, Blair realized that the blinking red lights meant it had been set to 'continuous play.'

Was there anything worse than hell?

Jim bounded up to him, spinning Blair into his arms. "I thought I'd try to pay you back for that great tape you made me listen to the other night. I thought it expressed our relationship so well."

Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck, Blair thought.

Fuck.

His macho partner had turned into an aging disco queen.

Jim sighed, and wrapped his arms tightly around Sandburg's waist, giving a squeeze. "I thought we could do some dancing, Chief, here in the loft. I haven't been dancing in years. Not since Carolyn made me take Zydeco lessons."

The song clicked into 'replay' and Blair nearly screamed. Why did Jim pick tonight to think he was Fred Astair? And why had he cast Blair in Ginger Rogers' role? He only needed a floor -length ball gown to make *that* picture complete.

Well, that and the heels.

Blair cleared his throat, trying to extricate himself from Jim's vise-like arms. "I -- ah -- don't really dance, Jim. Mostly I hang out at the wall and bob my head up and down in time to the music. I never learned that formal dance thing." He tried to smile sweetly up at his partner, but the music made him wince. "Why don't we just turn off the cd player and neck on the couch instead?"

No response.

Desperation speckled Blair's forehead. "Hey! You wanted to try that new cherry flavored lubricant we saw in the store last week. Why don't I just pop down and pick up a tube? We can use it later tonight. That would be special, wouldn't it? New lube? Jim? Buddy? Pal?"

Not zoned, but still lost in his own little world, Jim wasn't really listening. He sang along to the music softly, which wasn't bad, because when a Sentinel sang softly, no one could hear it. Unfortunately, as the emotion of the song caught at him -- how did that happen? Blair wondered. It was "Time In a Bottle" for God's sake -- Jim sang louder and louder. Which wouldn't have been so bad, had it also not been off-key.

So when the song hit the fifth replay, Blair actually *did* scream. With the force of ten men, he pulled away from his-partner-the-octopus' arms and dove for the couch. Trembling, he hit the off button over and over again, screaming "Die-die-die" at the top of his lungs.

As soon as the power was off, silence filled the room. Jim came over and laid a comforting hand on Blair's trembling shoulder. "You could have said something; I would have listened."

The soft tone broke something inside of Blair and tears streamed down his face. "You don't understand. I *HATE* that fucking song."

"Then I hate it, too." Jim got off the couch, walked over to the CD player and took out the disk. He silently held it out to Blair like an offering.

Blair looked up at him gratefully, and grabbed the disk out of his hands. He rushed into the kitchen, tossed it into the microwave, and set the timer for ten. The little zapping noise and accompaning shower of sparks was completely satisfyingly. And when the microwave beeped 'done' in its friendly, talky-the-toaster-sort-of-way, the disk had been transformed into a piece of modern art.

Probably the best thing, really. Considering.

Jim ran his hand down Blair's arm, and with a sigh, Sandburg relaxed against Ellison's chest, Jim's hands stroking his hair, the deep, reassuring voice echoing in his ear. "That song will never hurt you again."

Blair smiled, grateful to have his Blessed Protector back at his side.

Jim's hand stilled. "And what was that about a new tube of lube?"

Blair simply grinned.


End file.
